Business Essay: Accounting Students

Business Essay: Accounting Students

The purpose of the present essay is to briefly discuss some of the challenges faced by commerce students today, in particular those majoring in accounting. From a mathematical ability point of view, accounting is somewhat easier than finance. For example, financiers must learn more complicated mathematical formulas than accountants, in general. However, becoming a professional accountant remains far from being a piece of cake… and takes a lot of time in our humble opinion.

In Quebec, Canada, there used to be three designations in the accounting profession: CA, CMA and CGA. Nonetheless, the professional orders are working on simplifying the equation (no pun intended!) to converge on a single certification: CPA. Indeed, across Canada, each province has its own regulatory bodies overseeing and overlooking the profession. Students are often advised to verify with these organizations whether the programs they are enrolling in, and specifically the courses they take, correspond to the prerequisites to obtain the desired certifications.

Business Essay : Accounting Students

So you want to be an accountant? What does it take? At least in Quebec, the mostly French speaking part of Canada, becoming an accountant usually requires a combination of completed undergraduate studies and professional experience. A bachelor of business administration (BBA) with an accounting major, plus work experience at a recognized CA firm should fulfil the requirements of the professional order, but one is advised to find out for oneself on the respective regulating bodies’ Websites.

Indeed, students pursuing commerce, business and management studies are faced with many challenges, in addition to the opportunities and doors a business degree naturally entails. While a university degree clearly confers advantages, academic success does not necessarily guarantee acclaim in the job market, especially if the degree is from an institution with dubious credentials or low rankings. Thus, the aim of this paper was to briefly go over some of the main questions addressed by students studying business and commerce today, from an academic perspective.

The Witches of Westfleet

The Witches of Westfleet

By D. A. McGuire, excerpt

The marsh below the house was riddled with ditches. Over some of them makeshift “bridges” had been laid; most were soggy, half-rotted pieces of plywood that sagged when any weight was put on them. I made my was across them until I reached the lower fringe of the marsh. Here years of human feet had pounded out a more substantial trail, which branched off and up through some dunes. At the top of one of the dunes I looked down and saw… her.

She was lifting a branch from a tangle of driftwood. As she did so, a dark, fur-covered animal darted out of it. I still wasn’t close enough to see what it was, probably a musk-rat, or a rat.

I half-walked, half-slid down the dune, shouting, “Hey, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“Who the -,” she demanded, startled, using some pretty raw language, “are you?”

“It’s probably a rat,” I said. The wind off the water was crisp, cold, and full of ocean spray. I buried my hands deep into my pockets.

“It’s a cat, you fool,” she snapped. “Are you from up there?” She pointed pas the dunes and marsh, up to where Hartington House, the only house in the area, sat on the bluff like a beached four-masted schooner. This was all federal land, the beach, the marsh, the dunes. Hartington House was perched at the very edge of that portion of the National Seashore that extended into Westfleet.

“It’s a cat, it’s probably a feral cat,” I said.

Witches of Westfleet. Photo by Elena

“Feral?” Her whole face squeezed up with irritation.

“Yeah, that means wild.”

“I know what the word means, you idiot,” she snarled. “But it’s not. It ran back that way.” She brushed past me and started toward the marsh.

I need a moment to describe this gem of a girl.

About my age, fourteen or fifteen, wearing a long blue denim skirt with men’s workboots, a black turtleneck, jersey, and a man’s olive-green camouflage jacket. But it was her face that was most remarkable: small, tight, angular, with bright, angry eyes. Her hair was long, black, tied back – or some of it was; most of it was being whipped about by the wind – with a red bandanna. She was smaller than me, about five five, on the skinny side, and fairly attractive, I guess. Well, most of my friends would have agreed she was no “dog,” though what little I’d seen of her personality seemed pretty disagreeable.

Anyhow, I trailed her up to the house and then around to the back, where a small door opened into a crawlspace beneath the house. It was there, as if she knew what she was doing, that she pulled up on a handle. The door fell to one side on a pair of rusty hinges.

“It went in there,” she said, pointing to a hole in a loose board beside the opening. “Well?”

“Well what?” I replied, realizing that her eyes were a dusky blue.

“Well, crawl in there and get it for me,” she demanded. “It’s a cat, not a rat!”

“I don’t know if we should…”

“Are you afraid of a few spiders, a bit of old cobweb? She snapped, swearing again. “It’s November! There’s nothing alive under there!”

“Except the skunk. I’ve been trying to get rid of,” a voice said.

Published in September 2000, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery magazine

Trading Death

Trading Death

By Dick Green (excerpt)

That afternoon I spent time in Towson, going to the bank, visiting with a broker friend in his office, throwing speculations back ad forth about the ups and downs of trades. Pessimism clouded the market. When I pulled up to the house, an unfamiliar car was parked beside June’s. I found her in the living room having a drink with Dean Carter. He stood and shook hands. A strong grip, a tentative smile. Blond hair gave him a Scandinavian look.

“I stopped by to hear more about the lights in the Wyatt house. I ran across a county cop who’d been to see you. He knows I’ve had a gun stolen, a few minor things. It’s too bad our houses are out of sight of each other.”

June brought me a Beam on the rocks. “Have you been in the house?” I asked him. “Walked through the property?”

“I’ve been around the outside of the place. Walked to the edge of the woods behind it. Here there’s a ravine somewhere back there.”

I told him about seeing tire tracks alongside the back porch.

Trading Death. Photo by Elena

“Oh, those,” he said. “I saw a pick-up there about a month before you moved here. I think I heard some heirs were finally picking up stuff from the place.” He put down his glass and rose to leave. “Anyway, while I’m still around, let me know if you need help – I told you I’m selling.” We shook hands, he smiled and looked across his shoulder.

Something in his pale eyes when he looked at June alerted me. It could have been anywhere between tenderness and desire.

“He asked a lot of questions,” June said. “About your trading. Said he didn’t think he’d want to risk it. Wondered if I thought you should get out – before a wave of bad luck hits.”

her smile was cynical, as if we needed his warning. She stood at a window, watching Carter turn his car around and drive up the road toward his house. A dispassionate expression crossed her face as if she were judging him.

“He’s been through sad times. Losing his wife. It must have been terrible for him. I mean, nothing he could do.”

I wondered why he hadn’t asked me about my online trading.

We saw a light moving behind windows across the road that night.

The next afternoon, a case of beer in my trunk I was driving along a road near our house, when I was sure I spotted a car following me. A dark car, shiny grille. I’d first noticed it outside of Towson. I couldn’t decide what to do. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to lead him right up to the house where June was, so I pulled over and braked. I stared into the rear view mirror, watched the car stop behind me, the door open. Breathed a noisy breath.

Lucas walked up to the passenger door, raincoat buttoned against wind, and knocked on the pane. I unlocked the door, and he slid onto the seat beside me. I glared at him, asked why he was following me. Looking puzzled, he said he’d realized he was behind me a mile or so outside of Towson. Was on his way to see me. Was just as glad to talk to me here, without June listening.

“I won’t futz around,” he said, his face grim beneath afternoon light. “I need a loan. Ten thousand.”

“Jesus! Sharon said you’d stopped playing.”

“How can I? It’s my living. No riskier than yours.”

I thought he might not be far off.

“There’s pressure,” he said.

“Sharon’s bailed you out before. She’s broke.

Published in September 2000, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery magazine.

Davy Jones’s Gift

Davy Jones’s Gift

By John Masefield

From A Tarpaulin Muster by John Masefield (1907). Excerpt

“Once upon a time,” said the sailor, “the Devil and Davy Jones came to Cardiff, to the place called Tiger Bay. Thy put up at Tony Adams’, not far from Pier Head, at the corner of Sunday Lane. And all the time they stayed there they used to be going to the rum shop, where they sat at a table smoking their cigars and dicing each other for different persons’ souls. Now, you must know that the Devil gets landsmen and Davy Jones gets sailor-folk and they get tired of having always the same, so then they dice each other for some of another sort.

“One time they were in a place in Mary Street having some burnt brandy and playing red and black for the people passing. And while they were looking out on the street and turning their cards, they saw all the people of the sidewalk breaking their necks to get into the gutter. And they saw all the shop people running out and kowtowing and all the carts pulling up and all the police saluting. “Here comes a big nob,” said Davy Jones. “Yes,” said the Devil, “it’s the bishop that’s stopping with the mayor.” “Red or black?” Well, I say red,” said the Devil. “It’s the ace of clubs,” said Davy Jones; “I win; and it’s the first bishop ever I had in my life.” The Devil was mighty angry at that – at losing a bishop. “I’ll not play any more,” he said; “I’m off home. Some people gets too good cards for me. There was some queer shuffling when that pack was cut, that’s my belief.”

“Ah, stay and be friends, man,” said Davy Jones. “Look at what’s coming down the street. I’ll give you that for nothing.”

Davy Jones's Gift. Photo by Elena

“Now, coming down the street there was a reefer – one of those apprentice fellows. And he was brass-bound fit to play music. He stood about six feet, and there were bright brass buttons down his jacket, and on his collar and on his sleeves. His cap had a big gold badge with a house-flag in seven different colors in the middle of it, and a gold chain cable of a chinstay twisted round it. He was wearing his cap on three hairs, and he was walking on both the sidewalks and all the road. His trousers were cut like wind-sails round the ankles. He had a fathom of red silk tie rolling out over his chest. He’d a cigarette in a twisted clay holder a foot and a half long. He was chewing tobacco over his shoulders as he walked. He’d a bottle of rum-hot in one hand, a bag of jam tarts in the other, and his pockets were full of love letters from every port between Rio and Callao, round by the east.

“You mean to say you’ll give me that?” said the Devil. “I will,” said Davy Jones, “and a beauty he is. I never see a finer.” Ge us indeed a beauty,” said the Devil. “I take back what I said about the cards. I’m sorry I spoke crusty. What’s the matter with some more burnt brandy?” “Burnt brandy be it,” said Davy Jones. So then they rang the bell and ordered a new jug and clean glasses.

“Now, the Devil was so proud of what Davy Jones had given him, he couldn’t keep away from him. He used to hang about the East Bute Docks, under the red brick clock-tower, looking at the barque the young man worked aboard. Bill Harker his name was. He was in a West Coast barque. The Colonel loading fuel for Hilo. So at last, when the Colonel was sailing, the Devil shipped himself aboard her, as one of the crowd inn the fo’c’sle, and away they went down the Channel. At first he was very happy, for Bill Harker was in the same watch and the two would yarn together. And though he was wise when he shipped, Bill Harker taught him a lot. There was a lot of things Bill Harker knew about. But when they were off the River Plate, they got caught in a pampero, and it blew very hard and a big green sea began to run.

The Colonel was a wet ship, and for three days you could stand upon her poop and look forward and see nothing but a smother of foam from the break of the poop to the jibboom. The crew had to roost on the poop…

The Stranger

The Stranger

By Michael Z. Lewin

Excerpt

The next few days were very busy ones for the stranger, and increasingly Edie acted as social secretary, taking messages and keeping track of when the stranger was available for lunch or dinner, for this excursion or that.

The stranger went out several times with Lenny Kahlenbeck to look at substantial homes in various parts of Dubois and adjoining counties. Isolation, as they discussed at length, would be essential because of the need for privacy. Kahlenbeck offered to help with a high-tech security system too, through a cousin.

The area the stranger found most attractive was near Patoka Lake in the Lick Fork State Recreation Area. But there were tempting houses too in Celestine, Riceville, Bacon, and in the ironically named English and Ireland.

By the third afternoon, however, it was clear that the stranger could not be easily satisfied and would not make a hasty purchase.

“But don’t get me wrong,” Kahlenbeck said. “I respect a careful man, I truly do.”

“It is beautiful country,” the stranger said. “And I certainly appreciate your generosity with your time. I particularly like the modern log cabins. Do you have any more on your files?”

The Stranger. Photo by Elena

“You’ve seen everything,” Kahlenbeck said.

“But if something else comes up, you wouldn’t mind my coming back for a look?”

“I sure wouldn’t,” Kahlenbeck said.

“Good.”

“Chuck?”

“Yes?”

“I wondered if I could ask you a little favour?”

“What’s that?” the stranger said.

“I don’t begrudge a minute of it, but I’ve put in a lot of time with you the last few days.”

“And I am very grateful, truly.”

“What I was wondering was, would you mind if my little secretary, if she took a picture of the two of us together.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” the stranger said.

“It would be just for me, maybe to hang on the wall behind my desk. I know how you want to make sure it wouldn’t get in newspapers or anything.”

“Even so,” the stranger said. “It’s matter of… well, how things are done. What we call protocol.”

“Don’t you ever have your picture taken with people you meet?”

“Oh, sometimes. For instance, when I’m at a charity function.”

“Charity?” Lenny Kahlenbeck’s eyes narrowed.

“If, say a local philanthropist were to make a large charitable donation to one of the causes I espouse.

Alternative medicine, for instance, or population control. Well, it would be churlish in such circumstances for me to object to a photograph being taken with the benefactor.”

“A donation, huh?” Kahlenbeck said.

“Yes,” the stranger said.

“Like, how big a donation is “large”?

Having had considerable opportunity to assess the best answer to such a question, the stranger said, “Like, two thousand dollars.”

(Ellery Queen, Mystery Magazine, September 1993)